Recursion
by shelter
Summary: AU. 15 years after parting with Clare, Raki has settled down, with a life & family of his own. But when he is forced to take a life, he triggers a chain of events which he cannot control – or is that what he really wants? Completed, with epilogue.
1. Asleep

**Recursion  
**

**Length**: Short Story (Max 4 Chapters, 15,000 words)

**Synopsis**: Short Story. AU. 15 years after parting with Clare, Raki has settled down, with a life & family of his own. But when he is forced to take a life, it triggers a chain of events which puts everyone in danger – or was that what he really wanted?

_Disclaimer: It goes without saying that I don't own Claymore & all its characters._

* * *

**1. Asleep**

He stirred. He could not sleep.

In his bed, where he should have felt the safest and the most at ease, he felt robbed of every portion of dignity rightfully meant for a human being. _Why am I hunted even in my dreams?_ There was a dash of lush greenery, and the cry of a young maiden he could barely make out. _But is this real?_

He hoarded air, taking in deep breath after deep breath – and releasing it all at once, he forced his eyes open.

They squinted in the dark. But, as it was with a thousand times before, the shapes of his upper room leaked out in front of him from an otherwise paralyzing darkness. The wooden table with four legs, the pitcher balanced on top of it, the glass window he had installed himself with the obvious crack in the left corner, and the interior of the upper room – an utterly disappointing, tame domestic scene. It was all real; if he could reach out now, he would feel the certain hardness of wood and glass.

He was not at the forest, wrecked with uncertain and bloodthirsty winds. He was not fearing for his life. He was not running from monsters. There _were _no monsters here to begin with. And there was no silver-eyed maiden with the long sword whose name he needed to dredge from the sands of his memory.

He stared at the ceiling. _I have been dreaming again_. He sighed. _Insomnia or nightmares or both?_ The cold was making the tiny hairs on his chest brush against curve of his blanket. He left much of his bare chest uncovered, because Sabeena was not as tall as he was, and had this annoyingly lovable habit of curling into his back – and hogging a great length of blanket with her.

He was tempting himself again: he turned and stole a glance over his shoulder, and caught sight of her, nestled and wrapped up in the blanket as smugly as a cigar. Her sand-coloured head was snuggled an inch away from his bare back and, as always, she looked beautiful (and vulnerable) when her hair was splayed across her cheeks, in its neat disorder.

But somehow, he was disappointed. He was expecting something else. _An empty bed, maybe. Or someone else_. He sniggered at the thought. He expected another woman in his bed? _Oh for goodness' sake! At this rate, I'm going to become an adulterer._

He even knew who this other woman would be – _no, wait, I will not go there. Enough._

Summoning enough strength to sit up, he tugged gently at the edges of the blanket and gathered his share. He put them over his Sabeena, and sat up against the nearest bedside pole, contemplating his nightly sleeplessness and blank, vague dreams. When they had begun years back, he was worried. But thirteen years of recurring images had ceased to trouble him, leaving him actually wondering why his mind would not left him move on from those same visions, like a winter cold which was still around through spring and harvest.

There was nothing erotic about those dreams, he always told himself. At first he had given in to the foolish notion that the mere act of dreaming of that other girl was a sin, a mark of his potential unfaithfulness. An emotional adultery. But when he confided with Sabeena, she had laughed at him, even to go as far as to playfully suggest he was having such weird dreams because she was not satisfying him enough. _Such a farce_, he thought to himself. _Whoever the god of dreams was up there, he believed he had a good sense of humour: dreaming of another woman on the bed where I consummated my marriage_.

But thirteen years and three children later, the dreams did not stop.

He sighed again, heavier this time; when Sabeena stirred, he cursed his luck but thanked the stars she did not wake. Not as this ungodly hour. She needed the rest as much as he did. Anyway, there were many more things to come.

_Yes, many more things_. All these inconvenient things troubling him: who was going to put the horses out to graze tomorrow at noon when he had to be in town early to tithe and collect his share of the harvest profits? And who was going to tell Reynard his fence had broken down and his sheep were grazing on what was officially their land? And what about the next crop of maize? And the fields? And the plowing? And…

He shook his head to free his thoughts. There were too many things to worry about – too many tangible things, other than the metaphysical, dark shades of uncertain dreams with faces so familiar he could almost reach out and caress them. Maybe he was just having another mid-life crisis. Maybe he was just nervous about the too many things that would come with the dawn. _Maybe I should speak with Father Titus about this. Maybe he did not say his evening prayers again._

_Whatever the damn reason, I still need sleep_. He slowly slid back down into position with Sabeena, careful not to touch her bare shoulders peaking out from blanket like white hills. Once in his favourite position he turned to face her, and stared hard for a short moment into the face of the woman who did not bother if he was an orphan or if he could not pay the dowry for her hand in marriage. Her mouth thinned and formed into what he swore was a faint smile with the repetition of her breathing, untroubled by familiar dreams with familiar spirits. The closed slits of her eyes reminded him of when the last light of sunset illuminated the ridges beyond town; her breath seemed alive, binding the air between them with a sense of serenity only reserved for him and him alone.

He tore away from her blissful, unconscious face and searched his thoughts. _What more could I want?_

But his mind had already prepared a sarcastic response: another round of breathlessness, dark suffocating woods and blood-soaked gasps for air. And a diminishing image of a young girl he had forced himself to forget. And her barely audible cry of distress echoing like wind through the fast blurring branches and leaves. And him again forcing his eyes open, awakening to the half-expected, half-dismayed scene of darkness, furniture and family.

* * *

Recurring dreams make light sleepers. And light sleepers tend to wake early. That was the theory he had anyway: whether or not he had business to attend to he was out of his bed well before dawn. There was no one within a kilometre of his land that could boast of being out in the fields or with the horses so early. 

He swung the saddle onto his shoulder, removing it without hindrance from his steed, a graceful chestnut-coloured stallion which had served him for years. Clutching the reins he led the horse out from the stable and out into the enclosure. As man and horse walked silently in the watchful eye of the house's windows, they stepped out of its shadow into a field dark with grass and a sky teeming with stars.

"Go now," he said. He had no reservations letting this fellow graze without supervision. He always came back. Watching the horse trot proudly out off the enclosure and into the vale he turned his attention to the sky. A slight mauve discolouration in the east was the only hint that the sun was planning to appear today.

"This life has never been this good, hasn't it?" he whispered, to nobody in particular. He was still thinking about Sabeena and the children as he started out on his half-an-hour trek to town. _I should really stop speaking to myself_. Mostly he was just trying to convince his conscience that he was right. _Sabeena thinks I'm starting to let my nights get to me._

* * *

To him, Diryakar was one of towns in the continental south-west, in the rich maize and wheat growing regions far removed from the evil excesses of the rocky, tumultuous and landlocked centre. He had learnt a long time ago that people in the south-west desired peace; they were not the kind to kick up a fuss when land was annexed or armies were moving. Put food in my plate, wine in my cup and music in the tavern and life is good. _The Diryakar philosophy_, he reminded himself. 

It was a town conveniently built on the edge and across the meandering channel of a river. The people that lived there had lived by the river for a thousand years with an eye on trade, a bad taste for the "cultivated" lifestyle and a lot of common sense. This meant they were also suspicious of those not from these parts – but he refused to let the thought enter his head. _Those days were over._

He crossed the stone bridge and the fast-flowing river flushing beneath it. The sun had risen high enough for him to make out the tiled blue and white marble walls of the town gates as he approached. He also made out the watchful form of a sentry slouched by the gate. Without even looking at the face within the armoured head, he gave it a half-salute in greeting. The sentry did not return it; but then again, he was used to not being acknowledged anyway.

_The chiefs should put a better sentry out here if they're afraid of Yoma_. He traversed the empty, deserted street, heading for the tavern he and Reynard always met in the morning for a round of breakfast and daily, mutual territorial critique. Or arguing over whose territory was being trespassed on, as Sabeena had preferred to call it. He hardly noticed anything amiss – why would anything be anyway? The sun was just reaching out to him from across the walls; its touch and morning shadow had this unearthly effect of bringing a quiet town square to life, he noticed. He caught the first young lad of the day exit his house with a shovel and rake – just as he entered the tavern.

"Morning, all!" he greeted the master of the tavern as the old man turned to see who had entered.

Again, no reply. He caught sight of three men he did not recognize at the counter, hushed, as if they had concluded some conversation with the master. He looked them down, and deciding it was not worth the trouble to inquire, he proceeded to his friend Reynard, seated glumly alone at a table at the end, flanked by customers who eyed him as if he was a Yoma. With wings.

_What's with their looks? _Maybe it was just too early in the morning. "Brother Reynard!" he called out. He took a chair, and seated himself at the man's table without asking for permission. "I need to talk to you about that fence."

Reynard, whom he had gotten to know as a piously territorial herdsman and father of seven, recoiled for a moment. Then he broke into a weak smile. "Brother Raki. Strictly business as usual, eh?"

"Ah, at last someone responds!" he replied, cramming in as much sarcasm he could this early in the morning into his house. "You, my brother, are the only one to greet me this day. It's as if this town's all dead."

His comment earned him the disapproving stares from the folks nearby, and a questionable but unreadable narrowing of Reynard's eyes. But he was going to get this matter settled once and for all, regardless of the fuss and annoying narrowing of eyes Reynard was bound to make.

"Your sheep and all manner of fowl you are raising in that barn of yours are nibbling off every blade of grass on the field that I plan to plough for next season's maize," he shot at him. It was a lie, of course, _but what's a little deception among friends?_ "And when you decide to wake up and fix the damn problem, bring me with you! We need to mend our fences over this once and – "

He paused. Everyone in the tavern was staring at him now. _Am I that loud?_ He gave an apologetic smile which made someone go "tsssk!" but he realised he need not have bothered, because everyone returned to their victuals almost immediately.

"All right. I'll mend it today," went Reynard's voice from behind him.

He stared. _That was it? I raised my voice and he relented?_ He turned to face his good friend, slightly confused. But Reynard just stared at him, blank and amicable. He looked at ease and untouched by his morning outburst. _Curious_. The other patrons hardly gave him another look; as if everyone was acting their own, rehearesed roles in some twisted charade. _Or if I'm not mistaken, something is amiss here._

He decided to put up a show himself: "Well, brother Reynard. I'll be off!" he tipped his head in goodbye, but his friend hardly blinked. "God keep you till I see you again." And before he could catch anyone's eye, he headed straight for the doors, not letting out his breath till he was out into the sunlight.

_What's wrong with those people? _He wondered. Then, it hit him like horse kick to the chest. _Those three men_. He felt there was something about them; they looked like a pack of mongrels in a herd of sheep: completely out of place. And what were they talking about?

_Oh well. I think this is where I tell myself it pays to poke my nose into other people's business_. He suppressed the urge to talk to himself, and reentered the tavern.

To face the edge of a sword.

"And to think I was going to send Marruf after you, loud mouth," a voice from behind his confronter said slickly.

He took a deep breath, swallowing his fear. Taking his eyes off the tip of the blade primed for his forehead to regain his bearings. The scene was not quite as he expected: the three formerly at the counter all had swords drawn. One was standing over the wounded master of the tavern; the other (the likely leader) was comfortably eyeing him; the third was staring him down with his lethal sword. _Bandits!_ That was the only explanation. _At least not Yoma…_

"I've had enough of this," the leader said. "We're just here for the gold, but looks like loud mouth here has given us away." He took a swig from his grail. "Marruf, take him to the corner and lop off his head."

He felt his insides turn to ice. _Curses_. Before he could say anything, the bandit Marruf had hit him square between the eyes with his other hand. He fell –

A short darkness. And when he forced his eyes to open he was dragged to his knees. The wall was already in front of him. So that meant –

_Am I going to die just like this?_ He took a deep breath. _Curses_. _I couldn't even protect _–what was he saying? Whose thoughts were these? Whose presence did he feel behind him?

Who was he supposed to protect again?

He did not have to open his eyes. Instead, on instinct, his right elbow streaked upwards, and met the bandit Marruf's chin. A yelp of pain. A thud of iron on wood. And he was on his feet, the bandit was now on the floor.

He picked up the sword. He got the impression everyone was again staring at him.

"I think you have overstayed your welcome, my dear sirs," was all that came out of his mouth. He was not sure if he was actually speaking.

The sword left his hand. It sailed. And sunk its tip into the left shoulder of the second bandit standing over the master. _Bulls-eye_. Before the leader could even react, he had covered the distance between the two of them, and was moving for the man's head.

"How in the name of -!"

The leader swiped at him, but it missed – so near he could feel the wind of the blade slice into his throat. That move expended, he took his: his fist connected with the bandit leader's nose; his knuckles first hit bone, and then it sunk into flesh, the force making the face collapse like mud underneath the force of his blow.

"EYAHH!"

_Be quiet_. He sucker-punched the second bandit before he could recover; and without wasting another second, he tore the sword from the man's shoulder and swung it at his forehead – the same motion as if he was felling a free – but this time there was no opposing force: the blade followed the arc of his swing right through the wounded bandit. A resounding echo of liquid hitting the walls cut the scream short.

_Wait._ He turned – in time – and parried a blow from Marruf. _He still has a dagger!_ But the bandit forced himself on him. _Curses!_ He overcorrected, tried to regain his balance, and hit his spine painfully on the counter. _Drat_. And distracted by pain, Marruf took the liberty of attempting to serrate his right arm from his shoulder.

_Ahhhhhhh!_

He lunged at his attacker, shrieking, insane, boiling from the unsuccessful incision on his shoulder – _I'm going to rip_ – wide-eyed, Marruf parried one blow, but his dagger was no match for a sword, the force carrying him too far – _you _- and as Marruf fell, the man he was supposed to kill brought the entire length of his former sword down the bridge of his nose – _apart_–

_I'm fine. I'm fine. I've saved you. I saved you._ He stumbled back to his feet, and moved back to the counter, possessed with his wounds. The bandit leader did not have time to pick fallen sword when he felt the tip of another on his temple.

He looked to the man who had slained his companions. "Mercy! For the love of the gods – "

"No."

He felt his arm buckle under the weight of the sword, and the graceful flick, as it passed from one temple to the other of the bandit leader's face. Once completed, his arm tensed, then twitched and he dropped his sword to the ground. Strain –

_I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive! And I think I'm strong enough now to save you._

"Brother RAKI!"

He did not even feel him feet fold like a deck of cards. He was already back at the dark forest, running to the other side of the mountain.

* * *

**NOTES**___:__My first Claymore fic, inspired by reading too much Claymore manga. It's not much, and it's mostly Raki. But Clare will come in later. Please give your comments, because I want to improve on mistakes I've made in this first chapter (if any)._

_____There's no formal meaning for the word "Recursion". I checked it in a dictionary already. I learnt to associate "Recursion" as part of a technique in making sentence structure (I study English Language at uni). For this title, take it to mean "the act of recurring". You'll see why later. (08.12)_

_____ Reedited on 13.12  
_


	2. Assuage

**2. Assuage**

His head felt heavy, and his injury still stung; it was a detached, swirling pain, courtesy of the bandits' attempt to take his arm away as a parting gift. But what really got him worried were the greetings, salutations, curtsies and accolades he was receiving.

"God keep you, young lad!"

"If it weren't for you they would've burnt my tavern to the ground… Oh! I cannot thank you enough…"

"You saved us from those evil men!"

And Reynard's priceless look of stunned confusion: "Since when could you fight like that?"

Truth be told, he was not used to everyone treating him so – _politely_. Thirteen years as a breeder of horses and a tiller of the earth taught him he was just one rank above y-o-m-a in the marketplace of humans. But then again, the master of the tavern had brought him to the apothecary and the physician, and had paid for all his medication (which was at least three months' wages) – and this in spite of the fact he had already sustained a nasty cut from the bandits too.

He massaged his forehead with his good arm and sighed._I need a good meal. Not tavern food. _He clutched on grimly to the side of the carriage he was sitting on as it went over a boulder. _Maybe some sleep would be forthcoming too._

With an unexpected tinge of fear he chided himself for that thought. Sleep was _not _what he needed to think through now, especially after what had happened at the tavern. He was suspicious of his own movements, and even his own version of what happened. Had he really cut down three armed bandits with their own swords and moved with the speed of a Voracious Eater, as Reynard had told him? Sure, his slippery "brother" was a master at hyperbole, but he could tell from the serious narrowing of eyes that his words were not completely metaphorical.

Still, Raki was a simple man. Well, he knew he was a simple man; not a man of letters or flowery prose. But even if it hurt his head more to put it into words, his self-analysis of the last few hours led him to an unnerving, queer conclusion:

_Were his dreams were slipping into his waking life?_

The carriage careened across the path and came to a less than satisfactory stop, but he still dismounted without complaint. He carried with him one of the swords from earlier in his good hand, washed and cleaned. He did not really want it. But the witnesses insisted. _Think of it as the spoils of battle, _he tried to convince himself.

"Peace be to you, dear brother!" went the man who had just given him a ride home. He did not have the faintest idea who he was, but at his insistence he let him give 'Diryakar's hero' a free ride home.

"And peace be unto you, too," he responded as it was the custom.

Raki trudged towards his house, not wanting to think about the morning's events anymore than he wanted to have the blade he was holding pointed at his face again. Realising he should not scare Sabeena or the children with a weapon, he tossed the blade aside, to his pile of farming tools. And sighing he opened the door and crossed the threshold, back home.

_Home._

Wham! Something small slammed into his torso – and he grimaced, suddenly alert – but he saw a blonde mop of what could be only be hair clinging onto him and, – and he let the fear evaporate.

"Aestee! What – "

The words were hardly out of his mouth before he realised there were three times more people than normal in his house.

"Aestee," he said, addressing his youngest daughter, "what's going on?"

"They said father saved the town! Reynard told us you saved the town!" she squealed.

Another question came at him: "Father. Are you hurt?"

"No, Alina, I'm fine. Tell me why - ?"

"Family gathering just to make sure you were all right, that's all," she replied.

With Aestee still stuck to him like glue, he was greeted from all directions by his in-laws. He was not extremely fond of all of them, but they were the closest thing he had to family after all. Alina, his oldest daughter, bowed to let him past. _Am I training her to be a nun or what?_ Right now he just wanted to be with his wife; his relatives had other plans though: many of them rushed to him and began patting him on his good shoulder.

_Not again, _he sighed. He shrugged them off, heading to Sabeena, but he found himself face-to-face with his father-in-law. He stretched a small smile across his face to greet the stern, old man who – to his surprise – returned it. _And this was the man who refused my dowry? _

He moved aside and walked to the far corner of the room. And there was his beloved. Before he could say a word, she crashed into his arms.

"Why do you have to play the hero again, Raki?" he spoke into his shoulder, her voice upset. "You had me so worried!"

"I was just – there. That's all." It was a lie.

He squeezed her to him. She felt warm, warmer than usual. He let out a huge sigh of relief.

"Good to see you in one piece, brother." Through Sabeena's hair, he could make out his brother-in-law, Usman, grinning from ear to ear. His only son was with him as well. "Finally put your skills to good use, eh?"

Sabeena shushed him. Turning to Raki, she said grinning, "Usman, get everyone out of the house. This is private."

Raki should have laughed too. But right now he was just content to be home.

* * *

"I've gathered the horses, father," his son told him. "They're in the keep." 

"You didn't have to, Kain. I was going to do so myself – "

Kain shook his head. "You've been through enough today, and since you always wake early for the horses, it's only right that I take care of them at night," he said. Swinging his saddle and stirrups over his shoulder, he headed for his quarters. "You should spend time with mother. I promise I won't interrupt."

He swore his son was teasing him. But nonetheless he wandered back into the house to find Sabeena. He remembered he needed to do his evening prayers too.

He found her putting Aestee to sleep, whispering their evening prayers by her bedside, before extinguishing the taper burning by the bedside. Silently, he stood by, mesmerized, watching her – his wife – silently as she knelt down to anoint Aestee's forehead with a kiss. In the dark, she moved, lithe and effortless like a Claymore in battle.

When she stepped out of the shadow and into the light, she confronted him. Raki caught the full force of her powerful gaze.

"You were watching me," she accused.

"Can't a husband even take a moment to look at his wife?" he returned, with mock hurt.

She gave him a soft smile, turning into their room. As he followed, she said: "You still haven't told me your version of what happened earlier today."

He had already buried the day's events in a small corner in his head. Instead, he caught her by her shoulders, hands pressing on the soft linen of her simple dress. He could smell her scent, a wayward, deep aroma of basil, wildflowers and – Sabeena.

For a second he halted, staring at the contour of her neck, brown as the southern soil in harvest time – it was as if he needed convincing she was real flesh and blood, a living soul separated from the previous hours' blood, fear and uncertainty.

"Let that wait till morning," he insisted.

He heard Sabeena chuckle, and he could not suppress a laugh himself. This was what his life was. This was, he believed with absolute certainty, what he was meant to protect. Running his hands through her dark, undone hair, he delivered a kiss to the back of her neck, till all that filled his senses was her rich, overpowering scent like a religion, satisfying his soul.

_So much for evening prayers._

* * *

But he could not sleep. 

The next time he opened his eyes, the room burst into a sub-darkness which could finally rival the forest he was running from – or towards? He was breathing deeply again, but the shoulder wound made his breaths ragged, punctured with pain – he had felt exactly like this, drained of blood and energy – when he last left her standing in the forest clearing on the far side of the mountain.

As the familiarity of the room slowly began to condense around him, he stabilized, letting the images of dead branches, scarred trees and ruins drain from his thoughts. _Why do I panic? Why do I fear? _The pain finally got to him, and his hand went to his shoulder, trying to assuage a sharp, cutting agony.

Then the image seized his mind, one which he had forgotten but which his own senses had scraped out from the dirt of his memory: he was wounded in that same spot, by another Claymore, while he was trying to protect –

He drew breath again; the pain was slowly subsiding. This time he was looking at Sabeena, her bare back as smooth as a blade beside him. _Why am I afraid to mention her name? _

He lay back in bed; and the winds lifted the curtains by the window. He was afraid to fall asleep. He was afraid he might see her again, and wake up nauseous with the guilt of unfaithfulness.

Because tonight, he had thought of her so relentlessly, even with his wife's face in front of him.

* * *

The publicity he had been getting these few days irked him, so he had stopped his usual routine of heading for the tavern immediately after dawn. Today, however, he headed out earlier than usual, wanting to seek a mentor's advice. Again, as he let his favourite horse out to graze, he peered at the star-sprinkled sky, before making for Diryakar, his leisurely pace betraying his troubled thoughts. 

The wind-caressed trees were whispering a silent devotional as he took a different turn at the city gates, going for the cathedral. Diryakar was not the most holy city in the province, but it was good enough for a cathedral. _Because the people here still have un-confessed sins and daily transgressions_, he thought, _just like me_. The man he was seeking was just beyond those doors.

At the foot of the steps leading to the doors, he paused, hesitant to carry his burdens into the sanctuary. But that moment passed, and he glided through the opened doors unnoticed but uneasy. He greeted the first person he could see.

"Father Titus."

The old man was framed with a mane of white hair, which matched his gold and white robes. All these features did not compare to the smile he gave him upon being greeted. Raki bowed respectfully and kissed his hand. This man had presided over his marriage, christened all his children and offered him advice the last time this situation appeared out of control – he deserved the respect.

"Peace be upon you," he intoned, his eyes kept low as a sign of respect.

"You seek to talk to me, my son?" he asked. Raki nodded silently and the father beamed. "Come, let us proceed outside."

In the presence of this man, he felt uncomfortably vulnerable, yet relieved at the austere air he seemed to radiate. He took a seat beside the man on the cathedral steps, anxiety still making him glance across the housetops to pick out the very first indications of sunrise.

"Before you say anything," the old man started, "let me just say that taking a life is not easy, and your willingness to share this with me proves you had to do it out of a sincere necessity, and…"

"Father Titus, it's not about the incident in the tavern," he corrected. "It's about something else."

The old man appeared perplexed. "Is there something wrong with you and Sabeena?"

"No. Sabeena is well, as are the children. This is about," and Raki's voice descended into an unconfident whisper, "the dreams we talked about, last time."

Father Titus's eyes widened with understanding. "You are saying, the dreams you talked to me about all those years back?"

Raki fought to keep his face straight, but the truth was well overdue anyway. "It's different this time. The visions are more vivid, more real… I keep believing I will one day wake up and see – "

_Her. _He almost said her name out loud. If he had, it would have been a single syllable he dared not utter for some fifteen years.

"Fifteen years, yes?" Father Titus observed. His expressions remained unreadable as he addressed him directly: "You have always seen these visions as a kind of weakness, because it reminds you of something that you think shouldn't be brought into your current life. Or was that the impression I gave you?"

He turned to Father Titus both astounded and puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Tell me, my son. She is real, isn't she?" he stated, and Raki stared even harder. "And she must be very important to you – "

"My grace, don't…"

" – Which is why I believe, as I advised you those many years ago, that for the dreams to stop, you need to find the maiden you departed from,"

He looked curiously at the man who was supposed to give him sound, godly advice. Did he really mean what he was saying? Right now, a thick, iron-weight of dread smashed through every single one of his self-convinced arguments. _Sabeena. _The maiden at the other side of the mountain, at the far end of his dream was not Sabeena. It was silver-haired girl who –

"Raki?"

His stuttered reply came as if he was choking on it: "Father Titus, I'm living with the persistent guilt of infidelity, whether you or Sabeena believe in it or not. And it distresses me."

_A thousand times over, _his conscience baited him, _much more because you don't even know if you were good enough to protect her._

"Raki," the old man sighed, looking well beyond his years suddenly, "there's no solution to this. There are reasons for things which I, a mere priest, cannot explain. I can only give a context to your fears."

He bared his teeth, suppressing the urge to show weakness not forthcoming for someone of his age. But Father Titus still had words for him: "So when you say your prayers, think of her. Ask why she haunts you, and ask the reason behind these dreams. And, if God willing, that you might be reunited."

He stared at Father Titus as if the man had turned into a Yoma. But instead of reassuring him further, the man merely laid his hand on his shoulder, and ventured back into the cathedral and out of sight.

_That was helpful. _Yet, throwing aside his sarcastic outlook, he actually felt compelled to unclench his mind, release his own recollections on his own accord and to come clean, with himself. _I'm the one who needs convincing, that I did all I could, given the circumstances, and that's why things are the way they are today._And then to come clean with the person whom he felt he was forsaking: _I need to tell Sabeena, the truth_.

Once within the cathedral, he found a spot set alight by the sunshine screening through the stained glass. He stood there and, after months of deliberately forgetting his evening prayers, he made his own atonement. _The mountain, the forest, the sword of Rabona I'm carrying, the wounds and cuts I'm bearing, and – you. _

Was it a sign of weakness that he was giving in to temptation? He let the scenery and images inside his mind zoom in and reverse back to the silver-haired, blaze-lit eyes of the Claymore warrior he had left standing in the clearing. _Finally, back. _Back even to the last brush of her lips over his and full taste of them.

_Am I being unfaithful? _He questioned himself. But as if he had stepped off a cliff, his thoughts had nowhere to centre on and no response. So immersed in memory, he could not even feel Sabeena. There was only one thing he could think about right now.

_Heaven smile upon you, and keep you safe. Clare._

* * *

It was already evening when he left Diryakar, leaving by a side gate to avoid traffic and people who, he feared, might eagerly wish to invoke his celebrity hero status once more. The day's earnings from his helping Reynard with selling livestock and cattle was tied to his waist, making a clean, joyful jingle as he walked. 

As he climbed the last rise before reaching his land, he halted. He swore he could smell something burning, even if the rapidly encroaching darkness made it difficult to see smoke. Walking nearer, it was very apparent now: _something is burning, like roast meat. _The stench was intoxicating. _Could it be? _An image of Sabeena and the children just seemed to inflate his senses._No, it shouldn't…_

He accelerated, till his leisurely walk became a sprint.

He caught gloomy outline of his house as he finished descending the rise. _Still standing. _He chastised himself while he slowed his pace – _I'm really beginning to imagine things. _

But when he was near enough to see the bloody red glow of sunset glinting off the windows of the house, he noticed two – no, three men, with one on horseback – just outside the enclosure where he kept his horses. They faces were darkened by the evening, and around them cackled the finishing embers of what was a large fire before.

"Raki, yes?" one of them called as he approached.

He did not answer, but his eyes fell upon the last life of the fire, licking the sides of something big, something which was giving out the smell.

One of the men seemed to know he was staring at the fire, because he yelled: "We waited, but you didn't return. And since we didn't want to burn your house, we thought your horse would give enough stench to bring you back."

He stopped. No muscle in his body dared to respond. His mind went to Sabeena again. _Where are you where are you –_ but his thoughts fell at the feet of the three men leering before him.

_And I have no weapon, _was all that he could register.

* * *

******  
NOTES:**

_2__nd__ edit, reposted. Dragon-Slayer 2026 helped me with some grammatical errors. Likewise, if you find that this fic is taking a so-called religious stance, don't worry – I'm just using a lot of religious imagery and references to suit the atmosphere. I'm experimenting to see how it goes with the mediaeval context of__Claymore. _

_As of 9 Jan 2008, my target for this fic is 4 chapters, below 15,000 words. Expected to post all my chapters before 20 Jan 2008. _

_(12.12.07) & (08.01.08)_


	3. Atone

**3. Atone**

In the fast decaying light, he could just make out the forms of the three bandits before him: one mounted, two on foot. The mounted bandit did not appear to wield any weapon, though Raki was certain it was concealed. Of the other two, the man who spoke to him was clearly armed with a sword; the other, just a crude bludgeon. Beyond them, his ultimate prize – his home, his family – lay wilting in the dimming sunset.

"So you don't want to come nearer?" the sword-wielding bandit called out, his voice carrying over to him easily. "Don't worry, we won't hurt you!"

_As if I believe you, _he told himself. But for now, he had few options. _Forward into their swords, or turn around and have them knife me in the back._He straightened himself, and walked towards them, measuring his steps in his mind. At the entrance to the enclosure, a full three carriage-distances away from them, he stopped. He could feel the lingering warmth of the fire on his skin.

"Good man," the sword-wielder sneered. "Now, before we finish this unpleasant business, let's have some decent conversation."

His first sentence escaped his mouth before he could even prevent it: "Where's my family?"

The men laughed, hysterically. _I don't see what's so funny, _he thought to himself. The man on horseback was laughing so hard that he nearly lost his balance. When they were done, the sword-wielder took three steps forward, narrowing the distance between them to just several metres. Through his rat-tail mane of hair, Raki saw him lick his lips. Dark, red lips. _No – Sabeena, Alina, Aestee – don't tell me – _

"Relax my honourable friend, leave them out of this. For now," he told him. He raised his sword and pointed it at his house. "We told them to go inside and lock the doors. We didn't want them to miss the performance."

He let out a sigh of relief, but the other bandit added: "however, that thick-headed son of yours refused to listen, so we decided that for every time he insulted us, we'd cut off a finger." _Kain. _ Raki's expression paled. "Let's hope he can still help you round up the horses with the fingers he has left."

Another round of collective laughter. He stole a glance at the house. Not a single taper was lit, not a single light reflected from the windows. _Looks so peaceful._He cursed inwardly at himself. _How do I know whether these animals are lying to me? _He tried to visualize Sabeena, with Aestee clutched to her chest, peering out through the topmost window helplessly watching her husband in the bandits' thrall. Or of Alina nursing Kain's wretched, fingerless hands. But the result: nothing.

_I have to believe they're still alive. _

"Hey you! Pay attention!"

Grimacing, he turned back to the three jolly characters before him, his mind already laying out strategies and examining their positions. _Two men on the ground, one on horseback. So I need to scare the horse, but still – _he tensed as the sword-wielder further eliminated the distance to a spear's length, till he could even make out the dirt on the man's face – _I need a weapon!_

Then, as if heaven rudely answered his prayers, the sword-wielder tossed a bludgeon at his feet. _Wait – _

"Pick it up, dog," the sword-wielder ordered. "You think we'd cut you down defenceless like you did with Marruf and all?"

"Yeah! We'd rather you fight!"

"You beat us and we'll leave you alone! Won't we, lads?"

The sword-wielder took his final step forward; now Raki was within striking distance of his sword. The other bandit moved to stand between him and his house, while the man on horseback took his position behind him. _If I make a move, I'll have three men on me. _He tightened his grip on the bludgeon, feeling splinters eat into his hands. _Cornered and outnumbered – unless – _

"Look up at me when I'm talking to you, swine!" spat the sword-wielder. "You took out three of my men, in broad daylight, simply cutting them up like meat. Since you're so brave... and since you killed our brethren, we're here to return the favour." He raised his sword. "COME ON! Defend yourself!"

Raki forced his breathing into a steady rhythm. He tried to strangle his panic. _Now's not the time to close your eyes and start dreaming, _he was telling himself. Yet, he try as he could to stop his mind, he wandered back into familiar scenery – _the forest, the feeling, the silver-haired maiden waiting for me – or departing from me – in the clearing. _His vice-like hold on the bludgeon slackened. _Where are you where are you? Because I'm still the weakling as before –_

_God. I don't want to die. Please – deliver me. _

When he opened his eyes, the bludgeon left his hands – he did not wait to see the result, but from the corner of his eye he saw it careen into the sword-wielder's arm – and he was running towards the house. The horse shied. The man who held the reins cursed. The other bandit headed him off directly, and the two fell in a heap of tangled bodies.

Instinct dictated his hands. Before the bandit's first bludgeon hit him, he found the man's face. He was about to crush it with his good arm when the bludgeon connected with his ribs – _crack _– pain clouded his vision, but he had no time to waste, not now, especially not now, with the horse just behind –

With two blows of his good arm he felt the jubilant spray of liquid drench his face. And he wasted no time to stumble to his feet and dash towards his house. Not far behind, the repeated swearing of the man on the horse intensified; maintaining his balance, Raki's legs moved in a sprint. Then he heard hooves, loud and ominous, closing in.

"Don't let him get into the house!" the sword-wielder screamed.

_No. _Instead, he flung his body right, and pounced onto the mess if farming tools he always left outside his house. And from the rusted jumble, he fished out his hoe –

– And turned – and swung it at whatever was behind him. It caught the horse square in its neck, the hoe nipping a trail of blood as he completed the swing. The man riding it cursed his loudest. Wounded, stunned and confused, the horse let out a screech; Raki took the opportunity to strike it a second time. This time it reared on its hind legs, throwing its rider off. The man had a second's notice – before the animal lost its balance and crumpled on him.

_Finish it. _Whatever goodwill he took out of cathedral evaporated from him: he paced over to where the rider was struggling to free himself from under the horse, and with one solid strike, he sunk the hoe into the back of his head.

"Blasted coward!"

The heavy downswing of the sword-wielder's blade struck the wooden shaft of his hoe, and stuck there. But before Raki could free it, his assailant appeared to fumble – and all he saw was the hilt of the sword flying towards his face –

He must have flown. Because as Raki got to his feet, he was in a different position; his right eye refused to open, and his vision was consumed with an irrational pain. _Where is he? _No last light to guide him, he groped around for his enemy. _Curse this darkness – heavens! – _an audible footfall in the grass, but he never saw him (or the strike). But he felt it. Like someone had ripped his spine out from his back. Bleeding, he gratefully but unwilling buckled, his face meeting the soft grass of the place he called home. _Or will soon call home when I depart from here._

He blinked himself back into the surreal darkness of the fight. A hand's length from his face, his attacker sunk the sword into the grass, and then his ugly face forced itself into his view.

The bandit was panting, with unacceptably foul breath – at least to Raki. "How does it feel now, eh?" He curled his mouth in an 'O' and something left his face and planted itself on Raki's. _Spittle. _"Defenceless, hopeless and – heh – spineless."

_I've been there before, _he heard himself say. _In that forest. Believe me, I was there. _

With some unknown motivation swirling in his head, the hand on his injured arm flexed into a fist – and made impact with his attacker's smirking face. The punch threw the man off balance; he seemed to bounce off the grass, landing mathematically parallel to him, their sprawled bodies separated by the sword stuck upright into the ground like some perverse grave-marker.

Raki lifted himself. _I need that sword! _The bandit realised it too, and both struggled to their feet – unlikely competitors to reach the ultimate prize beckoning right in the middle of them. He extended his good arm towards it, and the bandit cast his whole body at his weapon.

_Got it. _

Kneeling and bruised, Raki reacted fast enough to make a defensive slash at his attacker – the immediate jarring of the sword as its tip cut flesh made him rejoice – _I've got to finish this_ – but his body, intoxicated by the effort, ignored his orders and he crashed to his knees again. But the spread-eagled form of the bandit just adjacent to him greatly eased his paranoia of another round of attack.

_Again I'm alive! I survived. Again! _Now he made a genuine effort to control his thoughts and his panting – _but what about – _

"Father!" Alina's voice.

His daughter's dark form came rushing out from the edge of his vision and embraced his head. _Don't worry, Alina. I'm all right. _He believed he spoke, but he could not hear anything, and neither did his mind register voice. _Just a little messed up._

"All right?" came an indignant yelp. "Mother! Mother! We need to get him inside!"

Was that Sabeena, who was running over now, the worry on her face so flustered, so child-like? He felt her hand brushed across the most sensitive of his wounds. _Relax Sabeena. I said I'm ok. You should call Reynard to clean up this mess. Sorry. _He saw the faces blur, but he forced them back into sharp clarity. _No, I shouldn't fall asleep now –_

But a gasp left AlinaAnd then a suffocating, uncompromising silence filled his head. _What was that? _

His answer was another footfall – but on his opposite side.

And a croaking, hoarse laugh: "You people amuse me."

Raki twisted his head to his opposite side, dread already threatening to knock him unconscious. The image he saw blitzed away his senses. _Oh God. Where are you? _

The bandit was on his feet. Raki would have believed he was dreaming, save for two observations: the sword still embedded in the fleshy chest of his attacker and – _and the face_ – contorted into the feral, angular detail of a Yoma's.

"Surprised?" the creature demanded. Before he stopped speaking he flew towards him –

– And over his head. He heard Alina's shriek, and Sabeena's muffled cry of pain. Raki's senses exploded into purpose and mission, but the response from his body was less than acceptable. _Got to save them – accursed Yoma. _A roar from the creature. The sound of wood breaking. And he expected the worst when he finally found his feet.

Sabeena was motionless in the grass; Alina was unconscious in the open doorway of the house. He could not see, or sense the creature – but he knew his target: his tools – he took a moment to regain his stability, vaulting over to the redeeming tool pile and desperately sought the sword which he had cast aside there several days back.

_I'm going to run that sword through your head like I did to the bandits at the tavern, monster!_Confidence blossomed in him as he clutched the hilt, and turned to face his transformed attacker – just as it pounced on him.

"You'd think I fall for that again?" it hissed

"Fool," it taunted.

Raki bared his teeth. The creature was inches from his face, blocking his downward blow with its bare hands. For a moment, his eyes strayed to the monstrous, scarred face – _the stench – _he identified it ­– _rotting human flesh – _now another vision was baiting him: his own flesh on the jaws of this demon – _God forbid – _and as he forced his energy into the thrust, his strength vanished from right under his feet –

The creature cast the sword into the air – it leapt at him, the force of its attack knocking him into the nearest window. His senses lashed out in agony as his head shattered onto glass – and his vision rapidly drained into nothingness. The pressing force of the demon's fangs nailed to his chest was all he could feel –_wait, something else – oh that – _and the dizzying odour of the creature's breath.

Beyond that, a vivid, approaching nothingness.

"Weakling," the creature moaned in his face. "To think that you needed your women to save you."

_No – this time really something else. _A voice: "And save him they will."

For the space of several dark, blank seconds he was in a vacuum, the pain in his chest multiplying like a constricting cough. Then unexpectedly, release. The feeling of tightness painfully disappeared. A surge of consciousness attempted like a drowning man to fill his mind, but pathetically, all he could think of was the window. _I'm going to have to replace the glass – _

The thought of glass made his head hurt. The nothingness accelerated. _This time I'm going out – away and out – this time it's for real. _An image bubbled to his mind: a familiar one. _Forest, sky and cloud. Sword, me and Clare. _He vomited blood. _Sorry I wasn't there, and I'm still not strong enough._

Other voices, probably in his imagination, echoed in the dim fringes of his mind:

"Raki. It's me."

"Raki? Talk."

_"I swear I'll come looking for you. Until, then, we both must stay alive."_

_"So stay alive!"_

And others: "We need to treat his wounds."

"Raki! Talk!"

_Clare Clare Clare._

* * *

He first felt warmth. _I'm cold._Then moisture on his cheeks. And then a current of conscious thought resurrected him. _Yoma!_

His eyes opened to the sunlight billowing through the curtains of his bedroom.

_Alive! I'm alive! _

"He's awake!" he was not dreaming. It was Alina's voice, but before he could respond, pain choked him. "Father, don't get up! Lie down!"

"Steady there, Father." Without a shred of doubt, the deep voice was Kain's.

He let Alina guide his aching head to the pillow. Her face and Kain's now occupied his mind, as they swarmed over him. Alina had a bruise to her temple; Kain looked completely unhurt, but then again his left hand was heavily bandaged.

"I was outside, fighting a creature – " he ranted off his most recent memory. "I almost had it."

"He's dead. His two bandit friends too," went Kain. "You did great, Father. Finally we could watch you show off your skills!"

"Kain!" Alina scolded, with a worried face. It drew a muttered apology from her brother.

"Sabeena – and Aestee?" Raki murmured.

"They're fine. Downstairs, preparing dinner," Alina answered. "Shocked, but unhurt otherwise."

_O God, accept my thanksgiving for watching over my family and delivering us from evil, _he intoned over and over again in his mind. _Wait – _he felt dissatisfied: something did not fit. His last image was off the creature's teeth zeroing in to savour his face. So how did he get here?

"I last remember… the creature cornering me on the window – and then – black," he spoke, each syllable brought a narrowing of his chest.

Silence. He saw the look of relief from Alina's face slide away. Even Kain looked muted, but it was he who spoke at last:

"You were rescued, Father – no, we were all rescued by – "

"Kain, don't utter that word! Let him rest!" Alina shushed him.

"By – three warriors. There! I've said it! You can't stop me now, can you?" Alina looked ready to punch him. "They know you, Father. They uttered your name!"

_Three warriors. Could it be – _

"Where are they?" he made a movement to rise, but Alina held him down.

"We invoked hospitality. And we are lodging them downstairs till they depart – not that they are eating our food anyway" Alina said, with a huff of annoyance. Raki moved but his overbearing daughter this time restrained him – by force. "Don't worry, Father. Rest first. We'll bring you downstairs later to meet them. Sleep now. Rest."

Something assured him; as his two bickering children argued over what to do next, he settled into his bed. The sunlight was streaming in gently. And for once in a long time, his rest was dreamless.

* * *

"Father! Father! See the warriors with silver eyes!" Aestee chimed. 

Aestee's voice first met him as he steadily made his way down. It was already even when, at last, his overbearing daughter allowed him to rise, proceed downstairs for dinner and greet the guests. He could stand – but only just – and with great difficultly he hung onto his Kain's arm like a child gripping onto his father, venturing into the unknown just beyond his imagination.

His eyes adjusted to the low burning tapers and sought out the guests. But after Aestee, the next face he saw was his wife.

"Raki." Her eyes were watery with worry, but still contained a defiant, headstrong glaze. Her right cheek was smudged red: the remnants of a wound.

But Raki was staring past her where, in the low, seductive half-light of a single, fast dying taper three Claymores –_no, that's not what I should call them –_warriorswaited patiently, observing him, seated at their family table. As it was the custom, when the master of the house was present, they rose to their feet in a shuffle of cloaks and chairs.

"Peace be to you," Raki greeted them. He freed himself of his wife and approached them, intent with welcoming them._No other human would greet them with peace, but I must show them I am different. _He moved two steps, but stopped, paralyzed.

_Clare._

Flanked by two warriors – one long-haired, the other fiercely regarding him – he saw the same look of realization touch her elfin face. She looked away, her face eclipsed by the dark, shadowy smear cast by candlelight. He was grateful for the poor light; his ears were burning and he was certain he was blushing. Still, he took the first warrior's hand and lowered his forehead to it.

It was her turn to blush. "Peace be upon your home too," she muttered shyly.

He turned to the person whose face was the pilgrimage of his dreams. Now, standing before her like a devotee before his god, his hand stopped midway in grasping hers. Their eyes were level._Why are you here? _he wanted to say. But no voice issued. _Am I in the forest again?_ It felt like it. But he could feel her pulse; the contact between them, hand to hand, appeared to be the sole bridge between his visions and reality.

Neither spoke. Both held their peace, stifled by a silence which they were, unconsciously, imposing on everyone in the room.

Alina broke the stalemate. "Mother, we should go upstairs," he said aloud. "Give Father some privacy to settle his business with the Claymores."

The warrior to Clare's right shrugged at the term. But she displayed a similar understanding of the situation, when she said in a whispered breath: "Yuma, outside. Give them some time alone."

As the room emptied, Raki felt a solemn gratitude towards his daughter's initiative. The other two warriors exited from the door, their silhouettes blurred against the window. His family trooped upstairs; with a sweeping glimpse, however, he picked out his wife's longing glance at him. It was not the same look she gave him earlier.

Rather it was a look of dejected defeat.

They were alone now. Raki broke the silence; he felt his first words were hardly spectacular after fifteen years: "It's been a long time."

The muscles of her face all concentrated on him, framed by her veil-like hood. "I know." _That voice. _Closer to the sound of wind, more like wind slipping through the trees –

_Clare – _but she seized him by the shoulders, grasping the fabric of his shirt, as if she needed confirmation that the Raki before her was real. He let her; after all these years, he needed persuasion he was not dreaming too.

"I finally found you," her perfectly level voice threatened to waver. She planted a chaste kiss on his forehead, then fell into him. "I've – finally – "

The warmth of her breath against his neck, Clare's weight upon his shoulders, _a lock of Clare's hair snuggled into his face –she was that close – no, this is too real. _His marital instincts set in: _this lady is not my wife_. He battled the urge to throw her off. But again the thought came. _The wife of my children is upstairs._

Raki's arms cut in between him and Clare, and he stared in amazement at his own doing.

" Raki. Why?" Her voice was almost pleading. Recognition set alight her face, partly clouded by shadow. Her bright eyes wandered above. "Is she – your wife?"

The next thing he felt was anguish, even more intense than the Yoma's claws in his chest. He felt his already wounded chest clench with a swirl of longing and repulsion – _how could he betray the woman he had loved for fifteen years? _And to that his conscience responded discreetly: _which one? _

He was stuck to the spot, held back by the mother of his children upstairs and drawn forward by the slinky, mysterious cloaked warrior before him.

But he did not make the choice: Clare crossed the distance between them and, just like it was many years earlier in the forest, convinced him by securing his lips in hers. His mind raced, his insides of his chest twisted even more. Under the influence of her most tender touch, he uttered a silent supplication – _God, forgive me – _and returned the gesture, till her lips and mouth became a sacred chalice from which he drank, and finally gratified his thirst.

* * *

**NOTES:**

**_Many thanks to Dragon-Slayer2026, my beta, for all his help in editing both story & plot._**

_I tried to be neutral while wrapping up this chapter & the action scenes get more intense. But, I'm afraid my attempt at using mediaeval language & religious imagery has led to some references to God, especially in this chapter. Hope there's no issues there._

_A side note: this entire chapter was written before my church youth camp on 18-22 Dec 2007. Dragon-Slayer2026 & I retained the plot, with certain amendments here and there. So it's as close to the way I originally thought it out to be. _

COMPLETED & EDITED – 17.12 & 08.12


	4. Awake

**4. Awake**

_How do you live as two consciences in the same body?_

Raki was bound by his obligations as a host and a strong tradition of Southern hospitality to serve his guests during the time of their sojourn. The leader of the three, a warrior named Miria declined on their behalf; but he swept aside their protests, insisted they take his lodgings and pressed on them double portions for every meal (even if it meant discarding almost all the food). He and his wife slept under covers, on straw, below the stairs. Following his lead, his family took to reorienting their lives around their three unlikely saviours.

"Good, isn't it?" Kain smiled, and Yuma blushed heavily under his gaze. "Father does the best curried chicken in Diryakar. And he cooks this only once in every, what, three years? So this is a treat."

Raki tossed his son a wet rag. "_You_stop bothering her and eat your portion," he ordered.

_I better watch him, _Raki mental note to himself, as Kain obeyed without fuss. _He might end up getting himself into trouble. _But he did have to admit his curried chicken was superbly good this evening, and after hearing they had come from the north, he thought some cinnamon, cloves and spice would be helpful for a dinner.

_And a reunion, _he reminded himself, _despite the implications._

If he removed Clare and his wife from the mix, he could still persuade himself that life was good, things were going to be fine and he need not worry about his children or the guests. He already noticed Kain and his advances to Yuma; Aestee's enthusiasm was helping the pensive Miria to talk (and according to Clare, for someone like Miria to show such affection, was remarkable). Alina took everything with a thinly-concealed devotion to meeting their guests' needs. Raki felt her wariness for the warriors; after all, she was well-traveled and knowledgeable, thus she had an excuse for slipping the term 'Claymore' often into her speech like common folk did.

For the three silver-eyed warriors, he believed they were just not familiar with so much attention.

In this semi-ideal family setting, two things troubled him greatly. There was his wife, who after gazing at him so intently the other evening, had scarcely spoken a word or inquired of his relationship with the tall, willowy female warrior who was always looking to him. She continued to perform her duties – not as Sabeena, but as his wife – serving, cleaning, speaking when spoken to. Her face, daily, remained unreadable, a closed-off, expressionless terrain which Raki, for the first time in his married life, found the utmost difficulty to traverse.

Alina and Aestee still brought smiles to her face, though. But he realized she ensured there was never a scenario when she was caught alone with any of their guests, especially that selfsame tall one. Because he needed to make sure his guests' needs were well-met, she was always asleep – or appearing to be – when he came to bed. He did not wish to disturb her when he rose well before dawn.

_And then there was Clare. _Raki was thankful for her sensitivity and self-restraint: they deliberately avoided situations where they might end up alone, and he treated her as equally as both Miria and Yuma. They spoke, on occasion. But he sensed Clare wanted to say something to him but was withholding it; this only made him more aware of the great mass of emotion he, likewise, wished to release but could not articulate to her in person.

Dying to speak, but choosing to remain speechless – they hovered, feeding off each other's presence, unable to cross the divide they had overcome on the first evening.

Four days of this and Raki began to see it: _this is not an ideal family. This is a family held together so thinly by charades and cheap courtesy – _although he was sure Kain and Aestee would disagree. 

* * *

Just after sunset on the fifth day, he walked in on Aestee and Miria in the living quarters, just as his youngest daughter was showing the seemingly stone-faced warrior another of her dolls.

"Has she been behaving herself?" Raki asked casually. His daughter glowered at the implied accusation.

Miria did not look up from the rag doll Aestee had placed in her hands. "I've never been around children before, at least not since I became a warrior" she said simply. "She acts very much like you, just in a smaller way."

"Glad to hear it," Raki grinned. Getting paid a complement from a warrior like Miria was getting paid ten times above value for his livestock: it make his day. He was about to leave the room when she spoke again:

"We'll be staying here for several more days, with your blessing," she said solemnly, continued without waiting for an answer. "You treat us like kings, so it must be difficult on your family."

_She brings this up every time we speak. _"No, there's no problem at all. You saved my life. The least we can do is provide you a bed to sleep in and good food. And as for my family, well, Aestee's seems to be enjoying it. "

He hoped that settled it, but Miria's stare continued to unnerve him. And then her next words threw him off balance: "We're doing this for Clare." She followed with an overly dramatic pause deliberate for such a conversation. "You know why."

"Yes, I know," he responded with a sigh. Aestee could take a hint; now that the atmosphere seemed heavy with meaning, she was content to stand by Miria patiently.

"Fifteen years separation is a long time for most, even people like us," she said again. _Why is she purposely being vague? _"Give her some time, Raki. After thinking about you for so many years, she's not sure how to react."

He felt his chest harden – a gripping, concentrated mass of something he could not yet call pain. _You don't say, _he thought to himself. _But then again, you have no idea. _He watched as Miria turned her attention to Aestee again, signifying the conversation was over. He muttered a polite "good evening" and left her presence.

There and then he made up his mind to revisit Father Titus for advice on this.

He deemed a solution to his situation (and time away to think) worth risking the anticipated stigma of Diryakar's townspeople because he was willingly hosting "silver-eyed witches".

As he ventured to his bed that same evening, he noticed Clare by the farmhouse, her pale form burned into vision by the shallow light of a half-moon. She was staring out at the plains, so still he could have mistaken her for a statue. He thought first of his wife, then remembered Miria's words. _She must be suffering too. _

He took in the sight, and went to bed. As usual, his wife was asleep. He laid his recovering body on the straw and turned his back to her. She was breathing softly; once he thought he even heard her sobbing. But, like Clare, the distance between them, the husband and wife of the house, was a shore too immense to cross, too wordless and bleak in the face of this unexpected gale that was his very real past.

Raki did not dream that night. But he did not sleep either. He remained haunted by a strange feeling: that he was a foreigner in that bed. 

* * *

He rose early.

In the dark he failed to make out whether his wife was still beside him. Still, he was mechanically conscious enough to ensure his wedding ring was still on his fingers when he thought of his wife. Underneath its copper frame he felt the grooves of their wedding vows engraved into it, dashing against his skin like a guilty uncomfortable conscience. _But I've nothing to be uncomfortable about, _he tried to convince himself.

Straw dribbled from his shirt as he put on his cloak. _A cloak to conceal my wounds and keep a weapon – _after the whole week's ordeal he was not taking any more chances. He observed the sky as he exited: _An overcast sky today_. Not a star was burning, just clouds and their gloomy outlines as far south as he could see.

According to routine, he walked two of his best horses out and let them roam the fields before starting on his walk. _Don't overexert myself. _His pace was slower than usual, the wounds in his chest just healing. Before he turned the along the rise where his house would fade from view, he took a glance back at it, wistfully.

He half-expected to see Clare by the farmhouse. But the enclosure was, sadly, empty.

Even with his slower pace he reached Diryakar when it was still dark. The sun was especially lethargic today; in the semi-darkness of the morning he saw no guards at the gates. Further on, at the cathedral steps, he noticed the closed doors. _Curious,_he mused, _have I come earlier than the attendants? _Outside the closed doors, he examined the sky again. Even the slightest trace of supposedly impending dawn refused to show itself.

He doors were unlocked, so he quietly entered the cathedral. He moved soundlessly towards the front, ignoring the dark dazed eyes of saints, kings and angels looming in stone on the walls and crevices of the cathedral. Settling under the stained glass impression of a weeping, martyred nun like the previous time, he lowered his head, giving breadth and depth to his thoughts.

_Grant me serenity to accept the things I cannot change, _He murmured tonelessly in devotion. G_ive me courage to change the things I can – _at that instant, just like before, Clare's face floated into his mind – he felt both the strangeness and the proximity of her – _and leave me with wisdom to know the difference. _

In the thick blackness of his thoughts, he could almost touch Clare._Clare_

The air around him appeared to quiver. He could sense it without opening his eyes. _What was that? _Stung by the condensation around him, he returned to the cathedral floor, spinning around to see if anything was wrong.

Immediately parallel to his position was a black-hooded figure kneeling right in the centre of the altar. Through curtains of wax hanging like daggers from burnt-out candles, he saw its body shaking, steadily.

_Another seeking penance? _He got up from his position, and started towards the man, keeping his injured arm consciously inside his cloak near the sheathed sword. As he approached, the man kowtowed, his head touching the ground before the altar, hands trembling, lips rapid with murmuring.

Then, several metres away, he heard the voice. There was no mistaking it; even the outline and shape of the person gave her away.

"Sabeena?"

He dropped to his knees and took her by the shoulders, feeling the shockwave of her sobs through them. His conscience, however, felt unnerved by something he had never imagined before. _Sabeena. Some husband I am. Never even bothered to check if you were still asleep. _He felt like he was trying to rouse a man from his sleep, because she persisted as if he was not there.

"Sabeena," he said again. This time her wet face turned to him. The redness of the wound on her cheek accentuated her glistening face.

_Am I that bad a husband, letting a familiar woman from before come between me and my wife? _

"Raki!" she said, this time with her arms snaking around his cloak. "My husband – my beloved – "

"It's all right, it's all right. I'm here." he reassured her. "You know me too well, Sabeena. You found me here."

Through her weeping a barely suppressed smile formed on her lips. Raki heard one of her sobs ascend into a half-chuckle, as he embraced her on the cathedral floor, assuring her again: "You are my wife. I married you," he paused, "in this very sanctuary."

She eyed him, her shining eyes flashing a powerful, brazen persistence. He remembered: this finery was the reason why he married her.

"Tell me," he said, attempting to push away the sound of her disturbing weeping. He mouthed what he thought was a rhetorical question. "What's wrong?"

"Raki, there's nothing – "

He cut her off. "No, _tell me_. Don't say. Tell me if I'm to blame."

She lowered her head. _She looks as pale as a dead man, _he thought. He removed her dark hood, waiting for her answer as her sandy hair spilled over her dejected form. He could barely hear her as she said one word: "Clare."

He under-estimated her outspoken honesty. _How exactly do I handle this? _He wished Clare herself was her to explain because, now, before the person whom he had shared his last fifteen years with, he deemed himself guilty and exposed. But his conscience prompted him: _come clean, before it's too late._

"I realise. Clare and I were close before we were separated. We were – " he paused. _Past tense? Who was he fooling? _Vocabulary fought to take precedence in his mind, but only because love was not the correct word. "We were – accountable – to each other. We took turns saving each other from our own demons."

The last statement was metaphorically truthful, but he waited for its effect on his wife.

"You never told me about her. Not once."

He sighed, closed his eyes and blocked out all thoughts in his defence. "That's my fault. I did not think I would see her again," he told her. _And this is truth. _"But I couldn't forget, and that's where the dreams come in."

"Raki."

He felt something: it was just like before. The air seemed to quake all around him. _It's much stronger now. _Raki looked to his wife, nervous.

"Did you feel that?" he asked.

"No," she replied, then returned back to the previous subject. "She was the maiden in your dreams? She was the adulteress you always feared would come between us?"

He barely noticed her words. The very air around them was saturated with a presence so dense, so overpowering that he was beginning to feel nauseous. _Something's really amiss here._ But there was no one in the cathedral – or at least, no one else he could see – save his wife and himself.

"So I decided to kill her and her friends. Adulterers and fornicators have no place in this world, don't you agree my beloved?"

_What?_

He took a long look at his wife. She was on her feet now, her dark dress sweeping the ground like a carpet of dead leaves in autumn. Her eyes were unusually red and still glistening -_ no, almost radiating a light of their own –_ as she took a step towards him. Her undone hair pouring over her shoulders caught the little light in the cathedral, and threw it at him.

She did not appear any different. But it was the searing emotion of fear in his chest, troubled by some unknown presence, which made him conclude: _this is not my wife._

"What have you done to my wife?" he demanded, his voice sounding more courageous than he felt.

"Husband, I am your wife!" she said. Her voice sounded normal. But the sense of dread refused to go away. He could distinguish this feeling from the guilt and shame he felt earlier, because this one seemed soak his senses with adrenaline and uncertainty. "Why do you doubt me?"

He chose not to answer, but made the point of holding his ground.

_Wrong move. _His wife snarled at him: "It's that witch, isn't it? She poisoned you against me. She poisoned our entire family."

His thoughts drifted to his children; alarmed, he thought of Aestee playing by Miria's side last night.

"Where are – our – children?" he questioned her.

"I took them somewhere safe. Somewhere away from the insidious influence of your Clare."

_This is madness! _His wife was turning on him – she had taken away the children – she had driven his guests out (assaulted them, even). _But__you're no better, _a sinister voice reminded him.

"We shouldn't have let them into the house, Raki. Especially that witch!" she spat. "I've seen the way she looks at you, as if – "

Raki's response was as patient and soft, as he could say it: "Don't speak anymore, Sabeena."

Only his shaking hand betrayed his fear. His other hand was clutching his sword. _I don't want to do this. _

"You'd think I stay silent after all your infidelity?" she shot back. "You think I'd ignore what you and that witch did in private?"

The laced resentment in those words tore at his mind. _This is not my wife, _he reminded himself. _Dear Lord, what devil has possessed her? _

She drew near to him; when she was at arm's length from him, he still did not shirk away. He stayed himself. Instead of any worry for his wife, an expertly concealed sense of alarm kept him fastened to the spot.

"Do you fear me, Raki? Now that you know what's really inside me?"

She raised her arm, and again the air within the cathedral trembled so strongly that Raki felt the pressure screaming in his ears. He felt alone, unsaved, ravaged. _Everything I've done, every act of sacrifice I did for her. _He recalled the bandit-turned-Yoma whose laughter echoed shrill like dying animal. _I fought off demons. For my wife. But this woman is not my wife!_

He pushed up enough nerve to still say, although his voice broke with melancholy: "Who are you?"

"I – am – your –wife!"

The air compressed, and instead of a screeching pressure, it turned into a forceful, cleaving wind. It hit him head on, and Raki felt his entire body slacken. The ground disappeared; the cathedral's interior became a mass of colour and faint light. _Crack._All his old injuries burst into pain. He felt his back buckle against the hard wall behind him and, dazed, he only realised he was at the rear of the cathedral – at least five carriage lengths away from the dark, advancing form of his wife.

"I learnt that all adulterers must endure the hell-fire," the form said, with the intent of a priest at a sermon. "Is it fair then, my husband, for my sorrow to be repaid with your eternal torment?"

_What – is –she? Almost like a – _he tensed again. He could feel another draft of wind surrounding him. He did not want to even let the thought enter his mind, but panic gave it access. _I spent fifteen years with a monster? _

The form lashed out with its arm, and a slicing wind tore through at him. Raki could only dodge by clumsily rolling away, and even then he felt the attack burn through his body. The impact of the force hit the wall, demolishing it – and the entire exterior side wall of the cathedral.

Raki drew his sword. But falling rubble attacked every part of his body. _Do I even stand a chance? Against that monster – none. But if it was my wife standing there – _

"Give me back the old Sabeena," he mouthed, croaking and upset.

The form appeared to show some signs of indecision, but it recovered. Through the fresh light falling into the cathedral, he could glimpse his wife's face – but atop a hideous, uncertain dark form.

The face unexpectedly broke into a smile. "So you've come to save him, then?"

Raki was aware of someone else in their presence. He turned right, and saw her. _Clare!_The sight of her poured assurance on the untamed fear rising inside of him, even though the image of the creature before him continued to assault his mind. Clare did not glance in his direction, but went straight towards the spreading black form at the front of the cathedral with her massive blade drawn.

But Raki saw the limp in her walk.

"I respected you," Clare said, her voice bouncing off all the remaining sides of the building. "I even addressed you as the rightful lady of the house. But you were something else. For Raki's sake I was willing to let that pass."

The mass of dark form solidified, revealing what Raki could only describe as a giant web of black vein and living skin across the entire front of the cathedral. Sabeena's face seemed like a mere ornament on it._No, I don't believe this. _He could not take in the sight, and retched where he was standing.

His head spinning, he heard the creature talk: "I have no respect for harlots who steal people's husbands."

"Then neither do I have any respect for yoma," Clare retorted.

"So you would have me fight you then to settle this?" the creature said, sailing forward till she was right before Clare.

"For you to have hidden yourself for so long tells me you are very strong, my Lady. So I know I'm no match for you," went Clare. "I also know how you took out Miria by using your youngest daughter as a shield, but you still love your children enough to keep them locked away from harm –"

"Such flattering words."

Raki saw Clare force herself to stand straight. "So now I request you to align your thoughts with mine. And revert yourself back to your human form. We have medication that will help you suppress your raw feelings."

Clare did not wait for the effect to sink it before speaking again. "If you don't do it for the children, at least do it for Raki."

Neither flinched. Then Clare lowered her sword. "You are Raki's wife," she said calmly to the creature before her. "I knew from the start I did not stand any chance."

_Clare, what are you doing? _

The creature laughed. Or expelled what sounded like a laugh. And without any mercy it flicked a portion of itself at Clare. She attempted to avoid it, but remained expressionless as the force blew her entire right shoulder away, armour and all. A spray of blood travelled so far that Raki felt the mist of it land on his face.

"For a Claymore, you have a lot of emotion," the creature observed.

"For you to be a mother of a family, you are more human than I ever will be," he said, and Raki detected an undercurrent of sorrow in Clare's voice.

The creature shuffled, as if considering its options. But as Raki got up to approach them, it sent another spike of force through Clare's other shoulder. _I've never heard Clare scream before. _The sound echoed in a full crescendo, unearthing every foul memory from his mind.

He saw Clare drop to her knees and the creature's close in on her: "Human or not, I will drain every ounce of emotion from that face of yours, harlot. And we'll see how human you are after that."

It reared itself, as Clare propped herself up, impaled on two strings of the creature's flesh like a sacrifice.

"Enough!" Raki yelled.

Both paused as they looked to him. He was already striding towards them. He did not glance sideways at Clare, but instead had his focus on the creature.

His voice did not waver when he uttered his statement: "I know you are my wife. We were married in this very sanctuary," he said. "Please, don't make her suffer for my wrongs."

There was a second of absolute silence. The creature shuffled again, closing in on Raki.

_I know you are my wife! _He shouted in at himself. "You saw me not as a stranger in Diryakar but as a man. You saw me not as a poor breeder of horses like your family did. You didn't care – " he was choking now, trying to relieve everything redeeming about his wife-turned-monster. "You didn't care that I could not pay even a quarter of the dowry! You – do – remember, don't you!"

He felt like the same little child crying at Clare. This time the difference was that he was trying to save everyone. Clare, Sabeena, himself. _He needed to_.

"I hid her from you," he said, gesturing to a bloodied Clare, who was staring speechless at the husband and wife confrontation. "She was everything to me – till I married you. And then I couldn't decide."

The climax of his declaration took all the breath of out of him: "I am a wretched man. I am an unworthy husband. And I am a liar."

The cathedral – or the portion of it still standing – fell into quiet. The monstrous creature overshadowed Raki who, both arms spread open wide, had let the words of his confession leave his mouth and was waiting to be struck down by godlike wrath. He was not foolish enough to believe an outpouring of repentance would move the creature's heart, even if it did have one in the first place.

At last, noise interrupted the deadlock. The creature released Clare, who collapsed to the ground hacking and coughing translucent blood and saliva. It enclosed Raki with its net of fleshy tendrils, many worming themselves across his arms and caressing him gently.

Sabeena's face lowered till it was level with him. When the face spoke, Sabeena's voice came out clean and collected. "Who am I, Raki?"

The tendrils around his right arm solidified. There was an audible _crunch_ – as every bone in that arm shattered under the force of the creature's slow torture. He let a cry escape his lips, but he forced his thoughts on an image of Sabeena, human and smiling, to compete with the voice he had heard.

"You are Sabeena, my wife," he said simply. "Come back."

As the force on his arm descended into numbness, the creature before him withdrew its portion into itself, till it became a cocoon so dense and small that, with Sabeena's face perched atop of it, it could have easily passed off as a human, without the malevolence it was radiating.

Raki clutched his right arm. Pain was beginning to mist his eyes. A moment's lapse of concentration, and he found himself on the ground, lying in beside Clare, in her blood. He found himself blurting out a prayer – _if I die here, let me be content – _agony was overtaking thought and reason – he turned and tried to see Sabeena – _well, how ironic, dying in the presence of God, my wife and my beloved_ –

_No. Not yet._

Deftly, he got to his feet, his body tearing away from its fatigue ruthlessly. A familiar sense of overwhelming desire enforced itself into his consciousness – _I know this feeling, just like the tavern, just like the fight with the Yoma_. If he had glanced sideways, he would have seen Clare descend into a fit, and her eyes blink into a deadly orange. As he stood straight with a numbness creeping into his wounds, the cathedral shook as the space beside him erupted into a blaze of light and fragments.

_I'll have to protect you –_althoughhe was not sure who that _you_ was.

If he was paying more attention, he would have noticed Clare retrieve her sword. But the feeling of sweeping determination, an instinctive impulse to survive was keeping him standing before the creature. _I'm awake. _His hopelessness tapered into a succinct focus: _I need to protect someone_ – Sabeena, his wife – at first, from bandits and Yoma – and now from herself.

The creature looked on at the two separate, potential attackers. But Raki could only think of Sabeena now – after years of dreams about Clare, when it came down to real desperation, thoughts of Sabeena, his wife, filled his head.

Picking his sword with his left arm, still wrapped with rags from the brawl in the tavern, he rushed forward. If he had stopped to look, he would have seen Clare close in on his target from the other side.

_Sabeena, my wife – I have to save you from yourself. _

The creature attempted to defend itself from Clare's onslaught, but she cut through the creature's flesh with a suicidal efficiency, slicing a path for its human face. In contrast, as Raki sprinted towards the creature's centre, he met no resistance. _Fight me, monster! _He became barely aware of Clare ripping the creature's counterattack into bloody shreds which showered him with pieces of meat. _Why don't you fight – me? – It's as if you want me to – _

A flashing blade. And a miserable crunch. He did not see the creature wrestle Clare's sword away and then envelope her with its tendrils. Because Raki had reached his destination; he let the lagging strain of muscles in his still injured left arm tense, and he swung the sword across Sabeena's ungainly face. To his surprise, it went cleanly through.

And he heard it hit the ground, with a loud, ominous thud.

The creature lumbered, thrashing wildly. It shriveled, rapidly sublimating into a wretched human form. Raki seized a piece of flesh; before his eyes it transformed into human skin. His sight coalesced into clarity. The gravity of his actions took all the energy from him. _No-ooo, what have I done? _Now the pain, from his wounds, in his head, guilt-like from within his chest, was as intense as ever. _Sabeena!_The wriggling mass before him turned into a limp human corpse, missing a neck and an eye – with a bloody mess for a head – _Sabeena…_

The dead body in his arms was heavy. The dead body was his wife.

_Of all my failures O God! Why did I have to succeed now?_

_What did I do what did I do what did I do what did I – _his vision wallowed into an incoherent blur – a hot wet tear burned its way down his face – _I should've died! I'm the liar and murderer! –_ he could not feel the ground, he could not feel anything, not even the body – not even the lumps of material beneath him –

_No – _his hands could feel a viscous hardness –hands seized it, dumbly mining from darkness a certain circular ring. The punctured letters on the ring cut him at the touch– _Sabeena – _and ghostly visions swept him into a state of hallucination: Father Titus, in the same sanctuary – a semi-circle of witnesses – Father Titus whispering to him – and another black figure – many tongue-twisting words. _Sabeena._In his mind, at its last frontier of endurance, he could only think of these words graven under the peeling grasp of his fingers like a final stroke of light.

_With my body I honour you, all that I am I give to you - _The black figure he pressed onto tighter. So tight that his fingers went through it –_ within the love of God – _and it dissolved, leaving only the fleeting thought of his vows –

_With my body I honour you, all that I am I give to you within the love of God – _

He opened his eyes. But all he saw was Clare's bloodied face weeping over him. 

* * *

NOTES:

_This chapter was edited, proofread & checked by my beta, Dragon-Slayer 2026. Beyond minor corrections, the plot & storyline is unchanged from the first draft. _

_The longer I procrastinate, the more this story feels distant & strange to me. I told some people, but essentially Recursion was a story thought up during my semester one uni exams last year. It's now a new semester & I believe this story must be finished, in peace, to set my mind at ease with myself._

_That said: this is second-last update. There will be one more epilogue, which I hope will tie up everything. But then again, I thought leaving it hanging out not be too bad also…_

_How southern is curried chicken is debatable. But South Indian curry chicken (kari ayam) was what I was thinking about._

_The wedding vows used are an abbreviated version of the official Anglican ones._

Completed & Edited - 28 Dec & 15 Jan


	5. Epilogue: Adrift

**5. Epilogue: Adrift**

He was in that forest again. The wind was obscurely lifting loose, twisted strands of his hair. All around the trees murmured at his presence, in the language of shuffling leaves and tweaking branches.

_I know this atmosphere, _he imagined himself think.

He felt words smoothen his tongue, recurring and winding metaphors and promises which only a greater power could keep. After years of conversing with Father Titus, uttering the long strain of prayers felt coldly redeeming. But even now, as he let the adoring words distil into the air around him, he battled his rebellious urge to shed tears. _There was a time for grieving, _he reminded himself. _And it's already over_.

The final stanzas he said aloud: "God knows the truth. To Him we return." And instantly the atmosphere seemed to fragment into normalcy. He became aware of other people nearby.

He marked the memorial with a linen shroud; anything else more elaborate, and he was certain the townspeople would find reasons to desecrate it out of their blind spite. They were justified, considering their cathedral had been levelled completely. Still, he kissed the mound of earth and, with a huge blank blindness in his mind terrifying him, turned to face the mourners.

As expected, none of them were crying. Not even Aestee.

Reynard earlier offered to lead prayers, but he overrode him: this was his responsibility. He felt the weight of obligation for his wife's soul, whether that soul was a human one or not. He did, though, allow Father Titus the blessing to perform a generous eulogy – to the forest, trees and the mountains. Because – beyond his wife's children and these two friends – the final member of the audience was his lone brother-in-law Usman. His presence made him painfully aware of the absence of the rest of the family. There were so many questions he needed to ask them.

But they would have to wait. He needed to settle one thing first.

He walked away, not wishing to face any of them now, and finally acknowledged the patience of three others, standing not too far off, barely camouflaged by the forest. In his melancholic disarray, his senses recognized a familiar, contradictory soothing presence.

He shut his eyes, but Clare occupied every space in his visions.

_And here we are again. _At the ultimate culmination of his fifteen years of dreams and fantasies – back to this hideous, desolate forest and cornered on all sides by the southern hills. Back to where Clare and he left off: face-to-face, wounded, the world threatening to sink in on them.

_But there's one distinction: _it gripped him as he caught Clare's eyesHe imagined himself staring at his own reflection. A ghost, drained of all idealism, grieving because of a lost commitment, while Clare returned his gaze with an unquestioning ferocity, the quality of the guilt at her act of attempted redemption unknown.

All the while, her words were hurting in his ears: _I'll swear I'll come looking for you – so stay alive._

He spoke before Clare could make an offer or Miria could interrupt: "I know what you're going to say," he said, even though uncertainty still filled the void left by his sadness. "But my place is with my children."

He caught Clare's line of sight veer away; he traced her attention to the three youngsters who he believed were being spoken to by Father Titus. _Does she realise it too? _He wanted to tell it to her straight, but the gap between his words and thoughts discouraged him, his few words prompting her to self-realization.

She spoke with her eyes closed: "I should have known." A deep pause. "Then will there be place for me among them?"

Raki noticed a bleak relief brighten Clare's face, even if it was for the shortest instant. It was his turn to look beyond her to her comrades. Miria's hard stare did not relent; with Clare's the words carrying over to her easily, she softened her glare, before turning aside to speak to Yuma, who in turn nodded. And these two simple gestures Raki took as their consent to stay.

But with the sounds of his children approaching from behind, and Clare before him, Raki felt – surrounded – by two opposing ends of his conscious life. _So this is it – _his mind knew that once he and this company trudged down this mountain to the plains, things would, for once, be finally irreversible. Once they reached the bottom of this mountain, he would have chosen to partake in everything that accompanied Clare and those of her kind: mobs, rejection, a struggle to survive and a blood debt still unresolved.

All around him, the crushing, pressing barriers of forest, sky and mountain wrapped themselves around his mind. The very scent and feel of this setting diminished him. It reeked of a tucked-away sorrow, a buried despair, a troubling memory.

He half-wondered if, for the remainder of his life, his dreams would be saturated with this tormenting moment, a deep limbo between pulling away and moving on from his pain.

Even his thoughts were in tandem with his discomfort: _More promises, Clare? _

She turned to wait for him.

But he took a final glimpse at the mound of earth, and then at his motherless children. _But at what cost? _

_What have I dragged them into?_

* * *

NOTES:

_I know a lot of people will not be satisfied with the ending, which is more open-ended than concluding. I wrote an alternate ending where Clare leaves and Raki is left by Sabeena's grave still uncertain, but I found that a bit too depressing for me. I wanted a conclusion that would reflect time-dulled grief: after mourning a loss, everyone feels an uncertain period of holding on and letting go – this chapter was meant to mimic that. I hope it worked._

_Credit must go to my beta, Dragon-Slayer 2026, who worked with me tirelessly on the editing. I'm thankful for his advice. Thanks also to all my reviewers, especially Zoey. I will admit that turning Sabeena into an awakened being was my only way out of a very difficult plot. I could've turned this into a novel-length story & went on 10 more chapters on Raki, Clare & his family. But this was meant to be short and sharp. There needed to be an antagonist – and it seemed the most convenient at the time. I apologise – I'm sorry – because it was a cheap trick. I should've known better._

_I'm not planning to write a sequel. I want to move on myself. This story began as an idea in the exam hall, and I laboured with it for 3 months. You decide whether it was worth the effort. _

_I have other stories planned. Now I hope for discipline to continue writing. If all goes well, I'll have another one posted here soon (1 weeks' time)._

_And as always: **all glory, honour & praise be to the Lord. Who gives all things. To Him we return**._

_Finished: 16.01.2008. Edited: 11.02.2008_


End file.
